take my body, hide it in a boat.

One year ago to this day, I stepped onto a plane bound for London. As I lay here now in my warmth-encased apartment, a wave of nostalgia ripples through my veins. I recall the torrent of emotions ripping my innards during that piece of time; that long-anticipated day. It was fear and hopefulness; trepidation and wonder and a liquid energy. Fragile as I was, I question now if, at that point of departure, had I known of the tears that would flow and the discouragement that would plague at times....would I have gone through with it?




I know I would have. Those two months saw me at my most pristine, my most inspired; but also at my lowest and darkest. I am blessed to have faux-sisters that were willing to weather all through with me, regardless of which extreme I was experiencing at the time. And for that I am grateful beyond words. Meg and Kit, you might as well be blood to me. Thankyou for your goodness; thankyou for tolerating my tired feet and my relationship cul-de-sacs and my stupid drunken questions and my inability to read any slash all maps and all the rain that fell from my eyes and my frailty underneath a backback and my yoga by night and my vegatarianism. You are la creme de la. Know. I will cut my throat if either of you ever change.



So thankyou again and over, continent that is Europe; you were a breathtaking teacher; ground-breaking actuallly. You roughened me up, and also you softened me. You whittled me down to the bones of myself, and you although you trampled on me at times and left me for dead, you also revived me, and brought forth a layer of life from within that I hadn't known was there.



It seems fititng that on the one-year anniversary of our wedlock with Europe, aforementioned trio would make a second pilgrimage to our shitstorm travel agent. We laughed; we poured over a map (this time of an altogether different slice of the world), we exchanged stories, we sipped coffee (black) from mugs usually reserved for construction workers and the like. I shed my dark eyes and sleepless haze; I found myself drawn into the excitement of what we are beginning to piece together. Ruthie is infectious; she has a heart of gold and pearl and amethysts and emeralds and whatever else is best and richest and purest. Adoration only, sent her way.




Shivering on the sidewalk this morning, coffee in white hands and wide-eyed with fatigue, I stood waiting for my ride Ruth-wards. The air was sharp and stiff, and its raw fingers aganst my lungs reminded me of a loose collection of things. Waiting for the school bus with my brothers in the barely-there morning light // sliding in next to a lover--passenger seat of rickety car, kiss hello on cool lips--thrusting shared coffee back and forth between one another's hands as we snake towards the open highway // solo walks through Wolseley towards the University--barely awake and thoughts whimsical. One, two, three...like electric surges, or gunshots. Perhaps a little bit of both.

As one of my most idolized writers has penned, and yes I know I have quoted this before, but bear with me it is shameless in its authenticity--
"Memory breeds memory. The very air is made of memory. Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory." (MacDonald, A.M.)

Memory breeds memory breeds memory breeds memory.
I could not agree more feverishly.
Its the grayest sort of day, and my candles have somehow burned down to nothing.
I've a closet to slash through and slenderize, wish me luck.
R. Louise.

PS.

Dear Devendra, can you make me your bride?






Or if not (and let it be said that I fully understand if you decide to make Meg your betrothed instead, she is a fox. and the truth is that we both have an insatiable fetish for you,) would you at least introduce me to this one?

Sincerely yours, Rebecca.